Second Chances
by Rap541
Summary: The Doctor and Donna have ended up in Downton Village in Dec 1921, where the Granthams, including Isobel Crawley, are still mourning their losses. But something just doesn't seem right, and it's not just that Isobel Crawley eerily resembles former Prime Minister Harriet Jones
1. Chapter 1

It was, Cora Grantham decided, a good idea to visit. There was grief, the loss of a child held a mind numbing sort of sadness that she knew all too well, but it had been Isobel Crawley who had invited her to teas and events after Sybil had passed. Isobel didn't have the luxury of other family either, without Matthew she was alone in the world.

Well, not alone. Isobel was a Crawley by marriage of course, and everyone at Downton Abbey was making sure to keep her included. Isobel had withdrawn, to her home, and with Mary also grieving and a new child to look after, Cora felt terrible that she hadn't made a point of spending more time seeing to Isobel. The Dowager Countess had agreed with her, that Isobel needed to be taken in hand but so far, all they had managed to was pry the woman out of her home for a walk through the village. A walk where she was making one word replies, even to some of Violet's more pointed barbs. It was hard to believe that even Violet couldn't provoke Isobel out of her depression.

So when the hatless brunette man in the overcoat leapt off the train station platform and hugged Isobel, as appalled as she was, she was also pleased for the distraction.

"Harriet Jones!" The brunette man fairly lifted Isobel off her feet. His attire was casual for a gentleman but not so much so that he couldn't be a gentleman, and he was followed by a red haired woman who was smartly, if plainly attired. She was holding two small suitcases and looked more annoyed and surprised than anything else, while the man was clearly overjoyed. "Harriet!" he said again, setting Isobel down. A puzzled look crossed his face. "But… how are you here? Here in…"

"The village of Downton," Isobel snapped, almost as if she wished to interject before the man said more. "And my name is Isobel Crawley, not Harriet Jones. I don't believe we've been introduced. I am Mrs. Crawley, and this is Lady Grantham and Countess Grantham, of Downton Abbey."

Cora was surprised. Isobel was never one to point out titles, and she also wasn't one to stand on courtesies. On the other hand, the man had bear hugged her off her feet. He seemed momentarily off put, and then recovered.

"I do apologize, Mrs. Crawley." His accent was from London, with a hint of a Scottish burr. "You are just…. So much like an old friend of mine, for a moment I was overcome. May I introduce myself? Sir John Smithton, of Moffat. I came here to study the architecture of the local churches. My doctorate from Oxford is in architecture." He took Cora's hand and kissed it. "I trust, as the lady of the land that you can give me some recommendations?"

Charming, Cora thought as she smiled at him. Not right for Mary, of course, too intellectual and a bit too old, but while Moffat was a mere Scottish village, she seemed to recall it being a well moneyed estate. A cheerful face at dinner would be a blessing, and if Edith found him interesting, all the better. "My, Sir Smithton, I am certain I can make several recommendations, not the least of which is Downton Abbey itself. Where will you be staying?"

He shrugged. "Oh, here and there. I fancy the village has an inn."

Not only was Isobel looking shocked, the Dowager was beginning to scowl. So much the better, Cora thought. We need a little bit of adventure. "How silly, Sir Smithton. Nothing would please me more than to have you stay with us. Please do." She leaned in. "Don't feel it would be a burden. It has been far too long since we've had a houseguest. It would do us good to shake off the cobwebs." Isobel gave her a look of concern, and she stared the older woman down. "It would do us all good, I think."

"Well," Smithton hesitated and then looked at his companion. "I trust you won't mind my bringing my secretary and valet along? I couldn't leave Miss Noble to fend for herself in the village."

Miss Noble scowled quite well at Smithton, Cora noted. Isobel looked almost ill, and Violet looked to be almost at the point of apoplexy. It must be my American side, Cora thought suddenly, because the idea of having a guest so unorthodox that it would put the household into an uproar absolutely delights me. The notion of Carson's expression at hearing about a female valet made her want to hide in the servants hall just so she could see it.

"Oh Sir Smithton, we certainly have room for an extra valet. Please say yes." She smiled coquettishly.

Smithton gave Isobel an odd look, and Cora noted that she nodded almost unperceptively, as if agreeing that the man could accept the offer. Violet was almost the shade of her name, which made it so much the better when he said, "With such a charming invitation, how could I say no?"

"I'll call for the car, then," she said brightly. Hopefully, she thought as they continued on, this is the spark we've needed since Matthew's death.

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John Bates struggled not to let the smile that wanted to come cross his face. He knew Charles "Dancing Charlie" Carson well enough to know how he'd react to the news. A smile would offend the older man. He gave Anna a wink and a warning nod. She wasn't as good at hiding her amusement, her mouth was a thin line but her eyes were twinkling as Carson took in the news that Mrs. Hughes had brought.

"A female valet?" Carson roared. He clutched his chest dramatically. It occurred to Bates suddenly that it was a genuine shame Carson had left the theater. The man had a way of leading an audience to where he wanted it to go. "The war has brought us so low, the shame of using women as servers at dinner… but a female valet? Will the horrors never end?"

Anna bit her lip to stop from laughing while the other servants looked concerned or outraged. "Now Mr. Carson, Sir Smithton said she was his secretary and valet. And if I have learned anything from Mr. Bates, "and Bates smiled at her, to encourage the point she was making, "it's that a valet and a lady's maid do mostly the same things. We tend to their clothes, sew buttons, shine shoes, check their schedule…"

"And when was the last time you drew a bath for Lord Grantham, Anna?" Carson said sternly. "And brought his bathing robe to him? Or shaved him? Those are duties of a proper valet! Duties that it is not appropriate for a woman to perform in this or in any decent household!" The old man had a point with that, Bates had to admit, although Lord Grantham wasn't one to request those services often. A valet and a lady's maid did have similar duties, he and Anna had often compared their duties with amusement over the similarities. Still, as much as he liked Lord Grantham, he wouldn't like it if Anna was required to draw the man a bath and set out his clothes while he washed. No, that was crossing a line.

"Well, maybe she's a little more than just a valet," Jimmy drawled. "She's not a bad looker… Who knows what goes on when the dressing gong sounds and the doors are closed… right Mr. Barrow?"

Barrow snickered, his expression sly. Carson turned bright red, too shocked by the suggestion to do more than sputter ineffectively. At that moment, the object of the stir entered the servants hall. Not a bad looker at all, he had to admit, quite an Irish beauty although he'd heard her speak enough already to know she hailed from further south. She took in the room with a glance and then nodded to Carson.

"I must extend my apologies, Mr. Carson," the woman said, her tone stern. Bates waited. She reminded him of O'Brien and that one was prone to cutting people with words like an artist with a sculptor's knife.

Carson didn't see it. "I beg your pardon, Miss Smithton?"

"I must apologize for overhearing the loud unpleasant assessment of my skills that resounded through the floor to where I could hear them coming down the stairs." Miss Smithton's expression took on the caste of a spitting viper. "But since questions have been loudly asked, I feel I must address them. I am employed by Sir Smithton as his valet and secretary. The few tasks of a valet that are inappropriate for a woman to perform, no matter that a woman is far more likely to be skilled at them, are things that Sir Smithton prefers to handle on his own, as he is a very independent man… as you will all learn, I am sure. In compensation for not doing those tasks, I assist Sir Smithton, who is also a doctor of architecture as a secretary. I handle his extensive correspondence with the university, I manage his appointments. I take notes for him in shorthand, and I type his work for him and proofread his papers. Do you type, Mr. Carson?"

"I do not!" he sputtered after a moment.

"A pity," she said curtly. "In the coming years, I suspect many employers will need a secretary far more than they will a valet. Or a butler. " She turned her attention to the younger men. "As for the ugly allegations someone was making about my character…. I accept that in a household such as this that new ideas and positions are going to lead to remarks, so I take no offense… now. However, if I hear such unkind and unproven allegations about my employer and his intent towards me again, I will be forced to discuss them with my employer. My employer who is an invited guest in the home of your lordship and lady. Am I being clear?"

Fiery temper to go with the hair, but he had to admit, he admired how she handled it. By rights, she could have demanded Jimmy be disciplined. Carson too, although Bates was fairly sure Lord Grantham would find the whole business tiresome. By addressing it, she acknowledged the problem, defended her honor, and also made it plain she didn't intend to spend the entire time fending off the puerile thoughts and comments of the staff. Well done, Miss Smithton, he thought to himself as Carson fairly shook from shock and rage. There aren't many who render the butler speechless.

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It was like being stuck in an episode of Upstairs Downstairs, Donna thought as she took a seat at the table for dinner. She tried to be fair, she doubted any of the people sitting at the table would enjoy or even want to live in her world, but she doubted the Doctor understood the problems she was facing. Her granddad, Wilfred, had gotten his start at Downton Abbey, as a hall boy and later a gamekeeper, just like his mother and grandfather had, so she had a fondness for the place. She had been to the estate as a child, her grandfather so proud to show her the follies and the place where the lord himself, Lord Grantham, had taken delight in young Wilfred's homemade telescope and later sponsored him to Ripon School. It hadn't come to much, Gramps had confessed to not being much of a scholar, but she rather thought his fondness for the monarchy stemmed from his childhood at Downton Abbey.

At the same time, looking at the stern black and white photos of her great grandparents and their peers was much different than dealing with their stuffy attitudes in person. Not that they were all bad, of course. The head housekeeper, Mrs. Hughes, had kindly told her to come to her with any concern or need. Of course there had been a veiled question or two about the nature of her relationship with the Doctor. Really, she wondered if leaving a copy of Fifty Shades of Grey lying around might shut a few of them up. The Doctor owes me big time for this, she decided as she tasted the admittedly delicious veal pie that Mrs. Patmore had made. No doubt he was having the time of his life chumming with the ex Prime Minister Jones and her cronies.

Only of course, that was hardly fair. It was the possible the Doctor was wrong. He had even admitted it, as they had pretended to adhere to the pretense that she was dressing him for dinner, that Isobel Crawley was possibly just Isobel Crawley and not Harriet Jones, ex-MP of Flydale North, ironically the very district Downton Abbey belonged to in the future, and ex Prime Minister of Great Britain. She was clearly much older and judging by the awkward lack of conversation on the drive to Downton Abbey, she certainly hadn't even hinted that she was anything other than a friend of the Grantham family. But at last check, Harriet Jones was supposed to be in England of the future and the Doctor felt it needed to be investigated.

Although what he thought he needed to do, she didn't know. She had a feeling he didn't know either, but she agreed with him that it was worth looking into. There was an odd feel to the place, she couldn't put her finger on it. Not bad, not at all, but not right, as if she had pieces to a puzzle that needed to be put into place. She'd had that feeling about the Ood. So had the Doctor, although he hadn't admitted it until after, but she wasn't going to disregard it. Something about Downton wasn't right, and it wasn't just Harriet Jones being a century out of sync. She pushed back the plate as the cook, Mrs. Patmore, entered the hall. "Mrs. Patmore, I must compliment you. That was possibly the best veal pie I've had since my grandmother passed… god rest her soul." It was fun to use all of her grandmother's pet phrases.

Mrs. Patmore, a rotund woman who looked like every cook that ever existed in a period novel, beamed at the praise. "Well, as much as it does my heart good to hear someone appreciate what's put before them, it were Daisy who made the servants supper." She leaned in almost like a conspirator. "She's a good girl, she is but if I praise her, she gets all hoity toity. But if you say something kind, she'll be over the moon. Daisy!"

Donna tried not to wince at the screeching shout and she was pleasantly surprised that a few people did openly wince. Even the young girl that came out of the kitchen looked suspicious, as if knowing all too well that having her name shouted meant bad news. Still, she had to admit, Patmore was right. As she repeated her praise, the young girl almost glowed with pleasure.

Mrs. Hughes smiled as Patmore and Daisy left the hall. "That was very kind, Miss Smithton."

"It's not kind at all, it's true," Donna said easily. Her plan, such as it was, was to present herself as friendly and helpful to the female staff. The old butler, Carson, had taken against her simply because tradition allowed him to, and she knew from her grandfather that servants on a large estate wielded more power than what they seemed. In a large estate like Downton, that meant that Hughes the head housekeeper held nearly as much power as Carson. "I always thought good work should be rewarded and cooking is an art. Trust me, you don't want to see me in the kitchen. We'd all be eating charcoal."

"I dare say we've done that a few times," Hughes said with a chuckle, "But Daisy has come along well, I must say. I didn't have a chance to ask earlier, does Sir Smithton have any special needs or preferences? With him arriving unexpectedly, we didn't have anything prepared but Lord and Lady Grantham do like to show hospitality."

Where to start with that, Donna wondered. Rather than be honest and explain the Doctor could eat almost anything including charcoal, because he was an alien Time Lord, she decided to spare herself some explanation. "Oh Sir Smithton is quite easy to please. A warm bed, good food, and pleasant company, and he'll keep himself quite entertained. Likes to shock people with his stories, and a bit of a know it all but he's a kind man. The staff here won't have any trouble pleasing him and he's not one to complain," unless someone was murdering or committing genocide or plotting to destroy Earth, "and he's a bit of a flirt but not… not shockingly so." In a lower voice, she added, "there's no need to be concerned about advances. Sir Smithton has an… unorthodox sense of humor but he's quite respectable."

Hughes looked relieved. "That's welcome news. And thank you, Miss Smithton. I won't deny it, I worried that having a woman in such a…. different role, in the household, would make for problems, but I am glad to see you're a responsible and respectable woman who understands how things are done." Hughes gave a knowing, stern look to the young housemaids at the other end of the table and departed as one of the room bells rang.

Donna decided to drop the stern act. She looked at the lady's maid, Anna and winked. "Did I pass inspection?"

Anna smiled. "I think so. It's Mr. Carson who finds it all too shocking but if Lord Grantham likes Sir Smithton, or if Sir Smithton manages to cheer Lady Mary or Mrs. Crawley up, then he'll be grudgingly kind to you." Anna sipped her tea and then set the cup down. "I don't mean to be forward, Miss Smithton, but I am curious. How did you come to be employed as a valet… and not a lady's maid?"

A fair enough question considering it was December of 1921 and not 2009. It didn't escape her that the older lady's maid, introduced earlier as O'Brien, pricked her ears. Lady Grantham's maid, which meant she was likely to report back. "I was trained to be a secretary for university professors, but my grandda was a valet at a big estate and he thought it was important for a woman to know how to tend a man's clothes. Sir Smithton hired me as his secretary right before the war began." Being in the war was a big deal, she knew that, and that meant she had to protect the Doctor's honor. "He volunteered of course, but his heart…. "

"Like ," Anna said quickly.

"Lucky to be well out of it," O'Brien muttered.

"We spend a lot of time out of country," Donna said. "New York, Pompeii, Greece, China, Japan… Now he's studying church buildings and he thought York would have some nice ones to look at."

"He should talk to Lady Edith," Anna offered. She turned to O'Brien, amused. "Remember how keen she used to be about churches…"

"Keen for Mr. Crawley more like it," O'Brien snapped, "and I doubt he ever so much as glanced at her. That one never had eyes for anyone but Lady Mary, not even Miss Swire, for all he used to protest." She set down her mending and sighed. "I don't pretend to be sentimental, but Mr. Crawley had a kind soul and an unlucky life and I feel all the poorer knowing he's gone."

Anna, Donna noted, seemed genuinely surprised and touched by what O'Brien said. She'd already gotten enough of the dynamic to know that O'Brien wasn't well liked by any number of the staff. Anna nodded to the older lady's maid. "I think we all feel that way, Miss O'Brien. Lady Mary has been so sad… It's cast a dark cloud over the house, and I think with the holidays so close, we're all reminded . "

A tragedy, Donna realized. Lady Grantham had alluded to it as well, in discussing how they hadn't had guests since some incident. "I'm sorry… we have been out of the country for a while. Has there been a death in the family?"

"Mr. Crawley," Anna said. "Matthew Crawley, Lord Grantham's heir… He was to be the next Lord Grantham. He married Lord Grantham's daughter and they had a baby boy, little George, and Mr. Crawley was…. Driving from the hospital to give everyone the good news and was killed in a car accident. "Tears welled up in Anna's eyes, and O'Brien dabbed her own face with a handkerchief. "It just… after all he and Lady Mary had been through, it just seemed so terribly cruel. He was only thirty years old and had survived the war despite being severely wounded."

Which was all the more interesting, Donna thought, because she knew it wasn't true. Her grandfather had met Lord Matthew Grantham when he was a small child and Gramps hadn't been born until 1934. Gramps had been as fond as Anna and O'Brien were, describing Lord Grantham as a kind, intelligent man who jumped at loud noises "because he was in the Great War" and Gramps had admired him. Which was impossible if Matthew Crawley died in 1921.

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John Smithton was quite droll, Robert Grantham had to admit. Mary of course, spent the meal either glaring at everyone for daring to laugh at the man's witty stories, or off in her own little world of agony and grief. That's unkind, he chastised himself as they moved into the parlor. Mary was devastated by the loss of Matthew, and as much as having baby George helped, it was still just three months. If, god forbid, it had been Cora, he doubted he'd be functioning half as well.

The others though, had enjoyed having a fresh face at dinner, even Isobel who had been grieving nearly as hard. The Dowager Countess of course had scowled all through the dinner, a bit more than normal really, and Carson had only eased off the stern looks as the dishes were cleared and Mary chose to join them for the after dinner conversation. That meant despite her grief, even she had enjoyed the evening, and if Mary was pleased, then Carson would personally insist on all guests having female valets.

"So, Sir Smithton," he said as he poured a cordial, "Cora tells me you're studying architecture. You must be far cleverer than I. I barely managed to learn to sketch at Eton. I trust you'll at least look over Downton for your study."

"Oh certainly," Smithton said. He sipped the proffered drink appreciatively . "You have excellent spirits, Lord Grantham, and excellent staff."

"Thank you," Robert said, grateful to have it acknowledged. He was about to say more when he looked out the window. "Oh damn it."

"What is it?" Smithton asked. He looked out the window in time to see the odd, colorful display of lights coming from the cemetery. "Oh, now that is interesting."

"Keep your voice down," Robert hissed but it was already too late. Branson, Edith and Violet all walked over to the windows to look, and the secret he had been trying to keep was out.

"What is that?" Edith asked as the bright lights flickered in sequence. That drew everyone's attention and Robert was at a loss what to say. As everyone peered out the windows, he felt he had to say something.

"The young gamekeeper assistant, Mott, reported this last month and the month before," he said calmly, hoping that no one made a point of considering the dates. Mary understood, and so did Isobel, and he grieved at the pain he was causing them. He had no doubt that whatever was going on, it was unrelated to the monthly anniversary of Matthew's death. "We're not sure why it's happening, we don't catch anyone…." And by god there will be guards on the cemetery next month, damn the cost.

There was some muttered conversation and then Smithton smiled brightly. "You must have someone well read on the Sycorax tribe of British Columbia. They're doing a delightful imitation of the Sycorax blood taunt."

"A blood taunt?" Edith asked, her interest aroused. Of course, Robert thought darkly, of course Edith had to ask a question.

"Oh yes," Smithton said, obviously warming to his topic. "The Sycorax have a nasty habit of capturing the child of their enemy and letting the enemy think the child is dead. Then they go to the grave of the child and send up fireworks, to let the enemy's family know they have the child and are treating it as befits a child of the enemy."

"How dreadful," Cora said. Edith looked appropriately horrified at well, while Violet looked far angry than he expected. Tom was at Isobel's side, and Robert understood why instantly. Isobel had gone an off shade of grey, and Tom gently steered her to a chair. Someone with a good head, Robert thought, considering for the first time that he thought of Tom as family.

"But why," Edith asked. "Why be so terrible?"

"Many reasons," Smithton said. He fairly leapt across the room in his need to keep everyone involved. "The Sycorax believe in blood vengeance. If they are wronged by an enemy, they believe in making sure their enemy knows how much their captured children suffer. Sometimes, the enemy doesn't even know until the blood taunt begins, that the child has been captured."

"Well," Cora said, "the savages are known for unpleasant behavior."

Trust Cora to say the right thing, Robert thought as the discussion veered back toward more pleasant topics.


	2. Chapter 2

It was strange, the Doctor thought, how happy he was to see Harriet Jones and yet how angry he still was with her. Deliciously clever as always, she had shown up that morning at Downton Abbey with an invitation to take Sir Smithton and his secretary on a tour of the local churches. It was a shockingly clever way to be alone with him. Not even alone, truly, since they were chaperoned by a servant. It was all so perfectly upper class. He wondered if Harriet ever considered where a career in acting, and not politics, would have taken her.

Not to 1921, of course. And not the target of a Sycorax blood hunt. As they quietly stepped into the small church, he said, "Are we going to drop the game playing, Harriet?"

She glared at him as she looked in the corners of the church. "My name is Isobel Crawley, now."

"Yes, yes, I know who you are. What are you doing here?" That was certainly the first question on his mind.

She looked at him, seemingly surprised, and then sighed. "If you don't know then I can't tell you."

"What?"

Donna smirked and raised her hand. "Because it's a *spoiler*. Sometime in your future and her past, the event where Harriet is sent back in time occurs and you're a part of it, so it's a fixed point in time that you as a Time Lord, should know that you can't change. Telling you about it would tempt you to change the time line, and at last check, you have scruples about that because it would create a paradox." She sniffed and looked at her nails, amused. "I do more than look pretty, you know."

He resisted the urge to say something amusing back, because he had a bigger problem than Donna's sarcastic mouth. "How long have you been here, Harriet?" Her presence created a paradox as well and he should have sensed it.

She smiled suddenly. "Twenty eight years, Doctor. Long enough to find the name Harriet a surprise. Why are you here? I somehow doubt you came here merely to tease me about my son's death. That *is*a fairly low blow and I hope you realize that your story last night was hurtful and upsetting to more than just me. Be angry with me all you want, Doctor," and her voice took on that edge he knew all too well. "Whether I deserve it or not, I can bear it, but those people are Matthew's family, and they might be arrogant, stubborn, upper class snobs, but they loved him like a brother, a son, and a husband, and they do not deserve to have their grief increased."

"Why do you think it was a story? When have you ever known me to lie?" He felt rather offended.

She rolled her eyes and for just a second the veneer of Isobel Crawley was shorn away and he was looking at Harriet Jones, ex-Prime Minister of Great Britain. "When we last met, you destroyed my career by lying about my health. "

"It wasn't a lie, it was a suggestion. It's not my fault the press ran with it." He had to admit, it had surprised him how far it had gone. "I'm not lying to you now. You murdered the Sycorax and they've somehow found out that you had a child. That display in the cemetery last night was to let you know that they have your son. Your live son."

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Donna saw the tears well up in the older woman's eyes and shot the Doctor a warning look. She had no love for the Liberal Party, or the MP from Flydale North that had seemingly risen out of nowhere to become prime minister but there were lines that shouldn't be crossed. Telling a grieving mother that her dead son was possibly alive and being tortured by angry space aliens was surprisingly mean spirited.

Isobel, or Jones, Donna wasn't sure which was more acceptable, shook off the tears in an instant. "Why are you telling me this? What purpose does it serve? What do you think I can do, if I believe you? It's 1921… even if I knew how to contact Torchwood now, there's nothing they could do. If it's true, I'd give my own life in sacrifice to know Matthew was alive and safe….He's been my son since his father lifted him into my arms and told him I was his mother. But I saw the body. I pinned his war medals on his chest and kissed him goodbye while his wife cried…."

The Doctor nodded. His expression was softer, whatever nasty mood he'd been in had left. "I am sorry, Harriett. I am so sorry… but they have him. That's what the displays are about. Bodies can be cloned, you know that. The Sycorax left a false body as… essentially a nasty prank."

"Ahem." They all spun around at the sound of a new voice. It was the Dowager Countess, and she was glaring furiously at the Doctor. No surprise, really, according to the Doctor, she'd spent the entire evening glaring at him. It meant something but what, she wasn't quite sure and the Doctor professed to not know. She'd already gotten the impression that the Dowager Countess was exactly the sort of stuffy overblown titled aristocrat that wouldn't appreciate hearing how much she looked liked Professor McGonagall in the Harry Potter movies.

The elderly woman stepped into the light from the church windows. "I was sent, by Robert, Isobel, in hopes of catching you before you went to the cemetery. He's on his way. Mosely was helping his father tend the grounds this morning and found something… unsettling and Robert wanted to make sure you didn't see the damage."

"The damage?" Donna could see Isobel, or Harriett, turn pale.

For an instant, Violet looked kind. A brief instant. "Some silliness with the stones. Robert intends to put it right so that you and Mary don't have to see it. Come with me to my home. Robert will join us when things are put to right. "The scowl returned as she looked at the Doctor. "Lord Grantham was hoping you could assist him with the difficulty, Sir Smithton."

In other words, Donna thought with amusement, the old bat didn't like the Doctor and didn't intend to have him in her home. What did you say at dinner last night, she wondered. It had to have been good.

The Doctor nodded. "Of course. I appreciate Lord Grantham's hospitality and I would be happy to assist him." His tone had a polite bite to it, to indicate he knew that the Countess was slighting him in some way.

The countess grabbed a shocked looking Isobel and dragged her out of the church. The Doctor looked up at the stained glass windows. "You know, they make stained glass from sand and metallic salts. An interesting process. Taking something insignificant and turning it into beauty."

"We are going to help her, aren't we?" Donna asked. It would be difficult, she got that from the way he stood, but she couldn't believe he wouldn't help.

"That would be a second chance, Donna, and I don't give them." His voice took on a cold edge. "That's not the kind of man I am and if anyone knows that, it's Harriet Jones. What's the saying? She's made her bed and now she'll have to lie in it." His eyes lit up in that furious way they could. He did have a temper, she'd seen it before, and she felt very sorry for Isobel Crawley/Harriet Jones. He waved his hands dramatically. "They were retreating, Donna! They were leaving with their tails and tentacles tucked between their legs, and she decided to kill them all. Not because she had to, but because she could. Those aliens had families, maybe even beloved sons. I told her not to do it and she did it anyway. The Sycorax believe in blood for blood. She took their blood children and now they've taken hers. What right do I have to interfere? I don't like it either but I need a reason that isn't about Harriet."

He waited. Donna thought fast. Time travel and paradoxes almost always ended up a numbers game, she realized, and the numbers were on her side. "Because," she said, glad to give him the excuse to help that he so obviously missed, "because Matthew Crawley can't possibly be her biological child."

The Doctor smiled. His eyes lit up with pleasure. "How do you know that?"

"I'm glad you asked," Donna said. "Because Harriett Jones said she had been Isobel Crawley for 28 years, but Matthew Crawley died three months ago, after just turning thirty. Plus, the way she spoke of it, her husband placing his son in her arms. That's not how a woman who gave birth talks about the first time she holds her baby. And while we're at it, my god, she wasn't exactly in prime child bearing years when she was elected. Whatever brought her here, it was after she was voted out and she was about forty six then. Maybe older. I always thought she lied about her age." She paused. "If he's not her blood son, then the Sycorax are punishing an innocent. As I recall, that's not something you like."

He grabbed her and hugged her. "Donna, that's brilliant! Now let's go look at what the Sycorax have left on the grave!"

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Sometimes, Harriet Jones thought, the silly social rules that stopped everyone from discussing exactly what they knew had their place. Violet obviously knew that something terrible had happened to Matthew's grave and was compelled by courtesy to not mention it. Which was good, because she was certain that any mention of Matthew's name was going to make her burst into tears. She wasn't so certain it wouldn't happen anyway, because in her heart, she knew the Doctor wasn't lying. Matthew was alive, somewhere, and paying the price for what she had done.

And there was nothing she could do to stop it.

Violet led her to the small park and then turned to face her. "I must apologize, Isobel. I overheard some of your conversation with Sir Smithton."

That was a problem. "How… how much did you overhear?"

Violet smiled primly. "Well, all of it, really. That was rather my intent." Then she frowned. "Isobel, is it true? Is it possible that Matthew is alive?"

"Yes…" and then she did sob and Violet held her as she shook from the force of it. "He's alive and he's being made to pay for what I did…"

Violent shook her, to calm her. "Isobel, listen to me. We must not speak of this to Robert or Mary, or any of the family… But Torchwood is at your disposal. Why did the Sycorax take Matthew? All of our monitoring indicates they take no interest in Earth."

For an instant, it was reassuring to hear the Dowager speak with such power and concern. Then it sunk in what the older aristocrat was saying. "You…. You know about Torchwood? You?"

Violet gave her a stern, knowing look. "Isobel, I am one of the founding members of Torchwood. I was there at Torchwood House the night the Queen was attacked. Sir Robert sacrificed himself for us and we decided to make sure it never happened again. I know who that man calling himself Sir John Smithton is, the Doctor. And he is a very dangerous man. Now, what business do the Sycorax have with you and Matthew? And what business have you had with the Doctor?"

Isobel slumped over to an empty park bench. "I don't… I don't quite believe this. I'm in Downton Village, in 1921, discussing Torchwood and the Doctor and the Sycorax with… with you."

Violet took a seat beside her. "Yes, I am equally astonished. I assumed when that… man showed up at the Abbey that he was looking for me, not you of all people." She took Isobel's hand. "Now what did you do to the Sycorax?"

Isobel took a deep breath. Violet had to know the truth, at least some of it. "As the Prime Minister of Great Britain, in the year 2006, I ordered Torchwood to blow a retreating Sycorax invasion ship out of the sky on Christmas Day." She looked at Violet, and for the first time in a long time, she felt like Harriet Jones and not Isobel Crawley. She wasn't sure how that happened. "I didn't regret then, even when I was forced out of office due to the Doctor's accusations. I can't regret it now, even if Matthew is paying the price. It happened, it can't be taken back and I saved England and our planet." She wiped her face. "I would trade places with Matthew if I could. I would take a gun and blow my own brains out if it made Matthew safe."

Violet made a face. "There is no need to be unpleasantly dramatic, Isobel. I will notify Torchwood of what is happening." She squeezed Isobel's hand reassuring. "The Doctor will not destroy this family. And I realize now where Matthew gets his admirable but irritating sense of justice and duty. He is his mother's son."

00000000000

Grantham ushered them both into the library and shut the door. He spun on his heels in a way that the Doctor found almost amusing. Grantham was, he realized, a man who would have been much happier if he'd been born a little earlier, or later. Too young for England's glory years, too old to have gone to war for queen and country, he was doomed by circumstance and birth to devoting himself to a home and a way of life that even he had doubts about. It hadn't taken much asking to hear how Grantham was something of a saint to his tenants, open handed and generous to a fault. Open minded too, which was a rarity in 1921. Grantham pointed at both of them, his face red. "You are not to speak of what we saw today. I will not have my daughter or Mrs. Crawley hear of this." He smacked the ornate box he was holding down on the desk. "I must have your word."

"You have it," the Doctor said, nudging Donna to say the same. He had no intention of discussing the opened grave, or the empty casket. Empty save for a thin viscous goo that he knew was the clone residue from the Sycorax body manufacture, and the ornate box Grantham was holding. The Sycorax had taken a sample of Matthew's blood no doubt, and created a clone to taunt the target that wouldn't have passed muster in a more scientific world. But it had passed muster in 1921, and so the Sycorax, realizing they hadn't gotten the attention of their chosen victim, had upped the ante. Inside the ornate box were two small human toes. Matthew Crawley's small toes, he had no doubt of that, and things would only get more unpleasant as more time passed. As Grantham poured them both hearty sized glasses of whisky, he gestured to the box. "You might want to put that somewhere a little more secure."

"Yes, quite". Grantham dropped it into a desk drawer and locked it, and then handed the Doctor the second glass of whiskey. "I appreciate your discretion and apologize for forcing you into such a ghastly business." He took a long drink. "For god's sake, I don't even know where Matthew's body is, and what in the name of god did we bury?"

"Maybe he's not dead," the Doctor offered. If he knew the Sycorax, Matthew was probably very unhappy but not dead in the slightest, and if he and Donna were able to find Matthew Crawley alive, they would be bringing him back to Downton Abbey. It was time to give a plausible work around. "I don't mean to unsettle you, but you said he died in a car accident. That token, "and he gestured to the desk drawer, "is the sort of gesture that kidnappers make. To get a relative to pay more money for the return of their loved one. Perhaps Matthew was forced off the road and one of the kidnappers was killed, a kidnapper that superficially resembled Matthew. You all must have been distraught, a new child born and his father ripped away tragically... and forgive me but I can't imagine anyone took a close look at the body."

The sudden gleam of hope in Grantham's eyes told him he had scored a direct hit. Add some denial and it was even a plausible theory for 1921. Kidnapping had been more of an American crime but ransoming the heir to an earldom had the right feel, like the plot of an Agatha Christie novel. Grantham twitched, contemplating the idea, hope rising on his face. "Please say nothing of this to Mary. I don't want to give her false hope, especially with the Christmas holidays upon us." He gulped down his drink as Isobel Crawley and the Dowager Countess entered the library. "Ladies, I had no idea it was so close to the dinner hour. I must get dressed."

"We're a little early," Isobel said as Grantham rushed out. She waited for the door to close behind him before she continued, "and Cousin Violet has a…. proposal."

That was interesting, but what the elderly woman said next truly surprised him.

"On behalf of Torchwood," the Dowager Countess said carefully, "we are willing to request a truce in the hostilities between us. We are willing to provide all knowledge we have of the location of Sycorax ships in the local areas of space. In return, you will rescue Matthew Crawley from the Sycorax that are holding him hostage."

"On behalf of Torchwood?" It made him want to yell, but he held it in check. "First, I haven't declared war against Torchwood."

"Torchwood, and the Queen, have declared war against you," Violet said carefully. "We are willing to not enforce the orders that call for your capture if you are willing to assist us in the recovery of Matthew Crawley. "

"Has Harriet," and he was careful to emphasize it, "explained to you why the Sycorax took Matthew?"

Violet nodded. "As horrified as I am at knowing that a mere 84 years from now, England actually entertains the notion of a female prime minister, those of us in the high council concur with her efforts to prevent the Earth from being overtaken by giant insect warlords and slave masters. Frankly I don't understand why you had objections."

Donna snorted. To Harriett she said, "I take it you didn't mention you weren't the first female prime minister? No mention of The Iron Lady?"

It was funny, but the Doctor frowned to make the point. "*I* take it that you didn't mention that they had already been defeated when you decided to destroy them, Harriet?"

"Isobel," Violet corrected, her tone firm and angry. "In this home you will refer to this woman as Isobel Crawley."

He sighed. "So let me explain the reality, *Isobel*. For every waking moment that your son has been held by the Sycorax, they have told him why he is there and why they are torturing him. They will have explained to him, in their not very charming ways, what you did, and who you are. And… to bring him back and stop it from happening again, I have to explain to the Sycorax the mistake they've made, and the truth about who you really are."

He thought it was the verbal equivalent of slapping her across the face, made worse that it was truly the only way. Instead, she smiled sadly.

"I've already made peace with the fact that Matthew may not forgive me for any of this. I would rather have him alive and cursing my name. If that is my punishment, I accept it gladly." She blinked back tears. "If you hadn't thought of it already, and I assumed you would, once you described it as a blood taunt, I was going to suggest it. Because it saves his life." She turned to Violet, and the Doctor was struck suddenly how eerie it was to see her slip from Isobel to Harriet with just a tensing of her body. "Cousin Violet, as it is required, you must know the truth as well. The Doctor is going to tell the Sycorax that their revenge is directed at an innocent. And it is, because Matthew is not my natural son. I met Reginald in India. He… saw me arrive and he took me to his home, as an act of kindness. I fell in love, possibly for the first time in my life, with both Reginald and Matthew and Reginald felt that Matthew was young enough that he'd never remember his birth mother…. He had met Isobel Turnbull in India, she was the orphaned daughter of a British officer. She had never been to England so I was able to slip into her identity. There will be no way to keep this from Matthew." The sternness fell away and she slipped back into the Isobel persona. "I told you the price I was willing to pay."

"And I believe I mentioned how overly dramatic that was," Violet said curtly. "And you judge yourself far too harshly. Matthew has forgiven Mary of far greater indiscretions."

"Like the Turkish diplomat that she slept with, who then died in her bed, and that she and her mother had to move to conceal it?" Donna smirked. "That one gets passed down for generations. Trust me."

"Yes," Violet said, looking as though she'd eaten a lemon, "that and others." She looked at the Doctor. "This one is better dressed than the last, but has the same lack of manners. Now, Torchwood does insist that one of our members goes with you on this mission." She turned. "Tom… come in." The Doctor watched in amusement as the son in law he'd been introduced to the night before stepped out of a hidden alcove, wearing a set of tails. Tom Branson, the Irish widower, married to the younger daughter that had died in childbirth.

Harriet openly gaped. "What? Tom is in Torchwood? Is there anyone in this family who isn't in Torchwood?"

"Well, you. Obviously." Violet offered.

"Matthew," Tom said, after a moment. "He's an heir. That's why Robert isn't a member. Younger sons and daughters only, not heirs. Sybil, my Sybil, was chosen during the war." He turned to Violet. "Matthew will know, after this. He should be…"

"Tom," Violet chided, her expression dark, "we don't discuss recruitment in front of the enemy." To the Doctor, she said "Mr. Branson will go with you."

"To spy," the Doctor noted easily.

"To get Matthew back from those monsters," Tom hissed. He sounded like he meant it, although the Doctor had no intention of trusting him.

And he doubted that anyone of them realized how artlessly they had revealed that Harriet wasn't in Torchwood. He turned to Tom, curious about one potential problem. "You're not blood related to Matthew, are you? I know the peerage likes its cousin marriage."

Tom looked puzzled and then shook his head. "No. I was born in Ireland. Why is that important?"

He hesitated. Yes, he decided, they needed to know what sort of dynamite they had all been playing with like it was a toy. "Somehow, they found out that Harriet Jones had a son. They didn't do a lot of fact checking," And he was suddenly curious who put them on the scent, "But do you really think they wouldn't be happy to include cousins, wives… grandchildren?" He waited. And wasn't disappointed.

"George," Harriet gasped, "and if they ran DNA, little Sybbie, Mary… all of you."

"Nothing would please them more than to have more victims to taunt you with," the Doctor said, pleased it was sinking in. "And the only link, the only blood they have is Matthew's, which means you all owe your lives to him since you can be certain the Sycorax have expended a great deal of energy asking him. He's clearly been lying to them, because all the Crawleys and Granthams are still alive. If I brought someone who shared his blood, they would discover he had been lying…"

"And that would start the problem fresh, wouldn't it?" Tom said. "I'm not related. I consider him a brother and family, and I will gladly do anything to save him, but we're family by choice, not blood."

The problem was that he was beginning to like Tom, despite the Torchwood affiliation. "All right then. There are things we need to do."

A gong sounded. Violet frowned at him. "We will have dinner. At dinner, you will tell Robert that you are leaving tomorrow morning. Tom will offer to take you to the train station as he has errands in Manchester. That will account for him being away."

She was good, he had to admit. He pointed at Harriet. "I'll need a blood sample from you, and we'll need to record it so the Sycorax will know we're telling the truth."

"Of course," Harriet said. "And… thank you, Doctor."

The gong sounded again. "Well," Donna said, with a touch of pique. "Don't mind me. I have to head down to the servant hall lest I sully your meal with my lowly presence. At least the food is better down there." She stomped off.

Tom shrugged. "She has a point. The food is better in the servants hall."

The sun, the first sun, was starting to rise and as much as Matthew had learned to dread the terrible noon that lasted for what felt like an entire day, when all three suns blazed down from the portholes in the ceiling and the metal walls burned to the touch, the rising of the first sun was as pleasant as it got on the ship. The icy cold eased off, and for a little while at least, he wouldn't be shaking with cold or burning up.

He lifted his manacled wrist and scratched the wall. The ship's days were insanely long. Before his pocket watch had been stripped from him by a Sycorax underling, he'd figured out that the days on the ship were three days in England. Thirty marks meant he'd been held by the Sycorax for 90 days. He could hear the cell doors starting to clang. He dragged himself to his feet. It was time for food rations to be thrown into the cell, and he knew there were cellmates. They had been hauled in during the endless night, and as the sunlight increased, he could see he had a chance at least of getting something to eat. It was easier when he was alone. The guards would throw the ration bar on the floor and be done. He'd get something to eat, as rancid as the rations were. With other creatures in the cell, there would be a fight. If they were big, or fast, he would go hungry. If ninety days on a Sycorax slave ship had taught him anything, it was that humans were not big. He could be fast though.

Except when his feet were swollen bleeding lumps of pain. The last interrogation had been bad, even before the shears. It hurt to stand. Be glad of that, he told himself, always be glad that you can stand, even if it hurts. Pain meant he could still feel and move and there worse things than pain. There was letting the Sycorax know about George. Or anyone else in the family, but George and Mary especially.

As he braced himself against the wall, he assessed his chances. He was stiff and bruised, but he could stand and the raw flesh where his two small toes had been was no longer bleeding. The new prisoners were huddled together. Ugly, with tentacles and giant eyes, holding little piles of goo in their hands. Of course, he mused, not for the first time, he probably looked just as ugly to them. Worse, with no shoes and no jacket, the ragged remains of what he'd been wearing the night George was born, and his hair long enough to fall into his eyes, he was likely to be driven off the steps of Downton if he ever made it back as some sort of scary vagrant. He almost laughed at that. There was no way back. He wasn't even certain where he was.

Along as they're safe, he thought as he tensed against the sound of doors rattling, I can bear it. And it's only one jump, the new prisoners looked small and slow as they hummed tonelessly, they didn't realize that food was coming.

The door opened and the ration bar was thrown in. He regretted the jump even as he dove for it. It was too close to the wrong side of the cell, he couldn't even touch it. Worse, he wrenched his chained wrist against the manacle. He crawled back to the wall in defeat, only to see the other prisoners also fail. The one that was closest was half the size of the other and it simply couldn't reach the food. None of them would eat. It drove him to tears of frustration. The creepy tentacled aliens huddled closer, their humming lower and almost frenzied.

Oh to hell with it, he thought as he stood shakily. They could be a family, if aliens had families, and god knew what the Sycorax would do to them. He knew it was a slave ship of some sort, and they considered him a slave, but not one for sale. He was part of a blood taunt, and he wasn't there to be sold, he was being tortured for the crimes one Harriet Jones had committed. The aliens across from him would be sold, and no doubt into worse circumstances. I'll die here, he told himself, and I will never see my family again, but I can at least be kind. Mother would want that. He leapt at the ration bar, feet first, and kicked it to the other side of the cell. Then he blacked out.

When he came to, it was lighter in the cell and warmer, and the creatures were still humming but at least it wasn't as upset sounding. He crawled back to the wall and hugged his knees to his chest. I'm not hungry, he told himself, and I'm not starving. I'm not starving, or hurting, or desperately lonely and this is a just a nightmare that I can't wake up from.

The humming stopped. He didn't look up from his crossed arms until the chains rattled and he heard a small thump. One of the aliens was standing and pointing. Then he saw it. They had broken off a chunk of the ration bar and thrown it to him, almost as if they had sensed his despair and wanted to repay his kindness to them.

"Thank you," he said to it, hoping it understood. "You're very kind to share." It nodded, and then all four resumed their tuneless humming. He hoped things didn't go as badly for them as he feared it would.


	3. Chapter 3

"Won't… won't we stick out like sore thumbs?" Tom asked as Donna and the Doctor ran around the machine they called the Tardis. "I mean, won't they know we're from Earth?"

"They're slavers, Mr. Branson." The Doctor looked over the coordinates. He could see Jack Harkness's handiwork in them. "All they will care about is that we are customers looking to buy." That would get them on the ship at least. Getting to witness the taunt ceremony would be more difficult but it mostly involved turning on the charm with a race of creatures he'd never much liked. "Would you like a pen and paper to sketch the Tardis? Since you're here to spy?"

"I'm not a spy," Tom said again. "Why are you so angry with Isobel? She's a kind woman."

"What makes you think I'm angry? With Harriet?" He was more curious than anything else.

Tom shrugged. "You had to be convinced to do something that I think, if she wasn't involved, you wouldn't have hesitated to do."

"He's got you there, Doctor," Donna said, from behind one of the consoles.

Tom eyed him, obviously warming to his topic. "And you call her Harriet like it is a dirty word. I know what it's like, to hear my name said so that I'm reminded of my place, or so I know just how low someone thinks of me. "

It was a topic he didn't want to get into with someone from Torchwood. "She has no regrets over it. She wouldn't take it back even knowing that *this* is the end result, someone she loves tortured for her crimes."

Tom crossed his arms. "Are you such a perfect god," he said softly, his accent stronger than before, "that you've never lied? Are you so perfect that you've never made a decision you regretted and never felt your back pressed up against a wall with the knowledge that you've made the wrong choice? And if you admit it, you'll never be allowed a moment's peace about it, that it will always be flung in your face?"

That was unexpected. "I'm not a god."

"Neither is Isobel. She asked me to give you a message, when I went to get the blood sample this morning." He glared at the Doctor. "I don't know that you deserve it but Isobel is part of my family, someone I choose as family, like Matthew so I must do as she asks. She said to tell you she couldn't regret her decision over the Sycorax because it led her to being Matthew's mother. And…. On the day she becomes Isobel Crawley, you'll know that she had to be Harriet Jones in order to get you to where you needed to be. And you're not to regret the decision you make, because she does not regret it."

That was delightfully cryptic, but picking at the man wasn't likely to reveal more. "On the Sycorax ship, you are not to react to Matthew when you see him. I expect that he'll be easy to find in that this is an era where humans off Earth are a rarity. We're here for the auction, so they'll allow us to examine the stock. No matter what, do not leave my side, either of you. They are slavers. As my companions, you're protected."

Although, as he considered Harriet's message, being his companion was hardly a safe job.

00000000000000

The suns blazed down through the portholes, beating on his head like a fire. Matthew held himself in a rigid ball. It was noon, high noon, he told himself. It was at its worst but it would ease off. He took a burning breath and shuddered. The burning air at noon tasted like the mustard gas in the trenches. Unbidden, the cries and gasps of his men falling in the muddy trenches rose in his ears. It had happened before. "You're not real," he whispered, careful to not breathe too deeply, "you're all dead and gone, and none of you would have wished this on me. Not a one." Slowly, the cries of the battlefield died off, leaving behind the odd humming of the aliens. He lifted his head, to look at them, wondering why he was suddenly so certain that they were singing. They were, and he leaned back against the wall and hoped they knew how grateful he was to hear something that could drown out the memories the hot metallic air triggered.

The sound of footsteps jarred him out of the exhausted nap. He flinched and covered his eyes as the cell door opened. It was too soon for another session, that would be later, in the slow cooling afternoon. A buyer, he realized as a Sycorax strode in. It had happened before but he blinked in surprise at the three figures that followed the guard. They looked human and he hadn't seen a human being since the night he'd been captured and… He blinked again and then rubbed his eyes. It was the too bright light making him see things.

Tom Branson was not in his personal nightmare, standing in the cell door way. There was a woman beside him and a man in a long jacket whose eyes blazed with rage. The man looked up at the portholes and then at the huddled aliens. To the Sycorax, he said, his tone short, "You know, you can't keep Ood in heat like this. Not if you expect to sell them alive."

"They are for sale," the Sycorax said. Matthew risked another look. There was a translator device when they took him to their viewer screens and made him watch the films of Harriet Jones, but they never bothered in the cell. He had an idea of what a few of their words were, but they seemed to be speaking English. Which was odd.

The man in the coat looked over the aliens. "Unprocessed, and overheated, you'll be lucky to get a few coppers, don't you agree, Tom?"

"Yes," Tom said, his voice shaky. "Yes, I agree, Doctor." It made Matthew shudder, because he was certain it was Tom, and if Tom was there….

"Of course you do," the Doctor said as he shined a blue light at the aliens. Then he spun around and knelt in front of Matthew, shining the blue light in his eyes. "Humans need more controlled climate than this. Next you'll be putting the lionfish in with the guppies. Still, we promised your sister in law Mary that we'd bring her a present, didn't we, Tom?" He looked deeply into Matthew's eyes. "Do you understand the words I'm saying?"

He did. But he didn't dare hope. He slowly nodded. "Don't… don't put Tom at risk for me… he has a child with no mother…"

The Doctor smiled. "You make it easier to try to forgive her." With that cryptic remark, he jumped to his feet. "How much?" he asked the Sycorax guard.

"It is not for sale," the Sycorax said slowly. "It is for the blood taunt. It is the blood of Harriet Jones."

"Is it?" The Doctor stepped back. "I've never seen a Sycorax blood taunt. Will it be before or after the auction? Should we bring popcorn?"

00000000000

"I really thought you were kidding about the popcorn," Donna said as she looked at the small paper bag.

"I never kid about popcorn," the Doctor said. He held out a bag to Tom. Tom, much as he expected, blanched and refused the offered bag. He was pale enough that the Doctor felt compelled to pat him on the back. "You did well, Tom."

"He looked like he was dying," Tom said angrily. He paced around the Tardis controls. "He didn't even recognize me, he could barely move, and he's been beaten within an inch of his life. He will die if this doesn't stop."

"Isn't that the whole point of the blood taunt, to kill him slowly?" Donna said. "I mean, did I miss something? That's why we're here to rescue him?"

"Enough," the Doctor said to her. With someone like Jack, or Martha, that sort of remark would have relieved the tension. With someone like Tom, it was just making it worse. "Tom, it will be worse before it is better. There is a part of the ceremony where the Sycorax will ask assembled witnesses to prove them wrong. It's normally ceremonial but their laws require they listen to the proof. But that means we will be sitting through the ceremonial interrogation and those two words don't really go together well. I scanned him with my sonic screwdriver. He's not well, but there's nothing wrong that he won't survive. Their intent is to inflict pain, not injury." He wondered if he was right about what was really bothering Tom. "He wasn't responsive because he could barely breath the air and he was frightened to death that *you* were there. He told me to not risk you, because you have a child."

"God damn it," Tom said. He punched the wall of the Tardis. "That is so bloody like him! I swear to god, that man never even thinks of himself. He's bleeding in a damn alien torture cell and he's worried about me!"

He wondered if Tom even saw it. He could see that Donna saw it, although she had more background information than Tom ever would. "Humans always astound me, did you know that? Never quite seeing the obvious."

"What does that mean?" Tom asked, suspicious.

The Doctor threw a piece of popcorn in the air and caught it in his mouth. "You said before, that Matthew was your brother by choice, not blood. Why? I mean, what's so special about Matthew Crawley, a stranger to you, by blood, by class, that you would get in a space ship with a person you think is your world's worst enemy, risking orphaning your own child, just to save his life? You said it yourself, he's the heir, and you're the uppity chauffer. How bizarre indeed, his being concerned about you"

"Stop it! He is a good man, and I'll not have you malign him." Tom actually put up his fists. "Matthew never treated me, or any of the servants, like we were less than him. He defended me, he asked me to be his best man. He treated me…." His voice trailed off.

"He treated you like his brother," Donna finished, her expression stern. "And he's likely scared out of his mind that his brother just walked into the hell pit. You chose him, he chose you. It's as clear as day if you look out the bloody window. You love him. That's why you're here. And he loves you, and that's why he wants you anyplace but here. Gah, I swear the English are the most emotionally repressed men in the world."

"I'm Irish," Tom corrected.

"You're from the bloody British Isles and it shows," Donna snapped.

"And we have a slave auction and a blood taunt to attend," the Doctor countered. He shooed them out of the Tardis.

It was unpleasant. Slavery was an offense and the Doctor hated it, so sitting through the Sycorax's haphazard sales raised his temper. It was lucky that the ceremony of the taunt was timed to occur when the maximum numbers of buyers were there because he wasn't certain he was capable of sitting through more slave sales.

Matthew was hauled out, in rags and chains, every inch the English gentleman despite his dirty appearance. His hands were chained in front of him, and the Doctor wasn't surprised he refused to willingly kneel, no matter that he could barely stand. He realized suddenly that Violet, nasty piece of work that she was, was right. Some humans, Rose had been among them, and he suspected Matthew Crawley was another, would forgive anything if they felt the person apologizing was sincere. Rose had made him a better person, and he had a feeling Matthew was the catalyst that made any number of the Crawley and Grantham family better people. Harriet was a better person, by far.

It made watching the grainy video of her escapades on the Sycorax ship easier to watch. He could hear Tom take a breath of surprise. Didn't really think it was true did you, he thought darkly, that kindly Mrs. Crawley who helps out as a nurse at the local hospital used to rule a more advanced version of your world. The assembled Sycorax roared in outrage as the video ended with a scene of the Sycorax ship exploding. And the real question, the Doctor thought idly, is where did the Sycorax get that? Someone had seen to it that they were given the scent of Harriet Jones.

"This one, this Prime Minister Harriet Jones "roared the Sycorax on the platform with Matthew, "killed our blood. We will be avenged! She will see that all of her blood will be ground down and forced to beg for mercy. And then, we will follow her example and destroy them anyway!" It poked Mathew in the chest with its staff. "You will beg for your life, blood kin of Harriet Jones!"

"You can go to hell," Matthew said tiredly. Not exactly a defiant shout, the Doctor thought as he munched on some popcorn, but it would look stunning on replay for an Oscar nomination.

One of the aliens smacked Matthew in the head with his staff quite exuberantly. Judging by the blood trickling down Matthew's face, the decidedly dazed look in his eyes, and the hissing from the other Sycorax, that wasn't in the plan. Of course, while he doubted Matthew considered himself lucky at all, the rest of his life was going to be a lot easier with most of the scars covered up by the tweed and dining jackets.

His thought was backed up by the lead Sycorax belting the one at fault with a laser whip set on disintegrate. "Fool," it muttered. "It wants us to kill it, to protect the rest of its blood. " The Sycorax raised its voice. "But we are fair, we of the Sycoraxi. You may defend yourself, son of Harriet Jones. "

Matthew blinked and swayed on his knees. "That woman looks like my mother when she was much younger, but her accent is different and you fail to understand English naming conventions. My name is Matthew Crawley. If my mother's name was Harriet Jones, then my name would be Matthew Jones. My mother's name is Isobel Crawley. Her name was originally Isobel Turnbull, until she married my father Reginald Crawley. Her parents and brother died of yellow fever in India when she was very young. My father was also an only child, and he died when I was twelve. His parents, my grandparents, died of old age when I was a little boy. My father had two cousins, James and Patrick, but they both died from drowning when the Titanic sank in 1912." He took a deep breath. "I'm not married, I have no children. My only relative is Isobel Crawley. She is a nurse. She cannot possibly be Harriet Jones."

The Sycorax leader rained down blows on him. "Stop lying, human!" As Matthew resumed his defense, something that sounded more like a memorized prayer than a recitation of facts, the Doctor leaned over to Tom. "I know we just saw him receive a concussion but didn't you say he was a lawyer? Did he actually make a living at it?"

Tom shrugged tiredly. "All I know is that he's a lawyer, and he never wrote a will despite the giant mess being Robert's heir leads to. Even I have a will. When are we stopping this?"

"Not yet."

The Sycorax leader whipped Matthew into silence. The man was on his hands and knees, panting from exertion. The Sycorax waited a moment and then kicked him. "Again, we will be fair. Will anyone speak for this liar?"

The Doctor stood up. "I will!" He jumped to the center of the auction arena and gestured for Tom and Donna to follow him. "I am the Doctor and while the law is not my specialty, I would like to represent Mr. Crawley." He leaned down to Matthew. "To prove my qualifications, I ask you a simple question. What do you say about a man who represents himself in a court, Mr. Crawley?"

Matthew looked up at him, frightened. "That… that he has a fool for a client."

"Exactly! I'm glad the time at Oxford wasn't an entire waste." The Doctor pointed at him and then looked the Sycorax leader in the eyes. "My client has made a false argument because he has not been in possession of all of the facts. Harriet Jones is Isobel Crawley." The Sycorax gasped and rumbled. "But… Matthew Crawley is not related in any way to Harriet Jones, who has posed as Isobel Crawley for the last twenty eight years. Mr. Branson, Ms. Noble, our evidence?" Donna handed the video recorder to the Sycorax, while Tom held out the vial of blood. "You do agree, your argument is that Isobel Crawley is Harriet Jones and therefore Matthew Crawley is blood related?" He waited for the Sycorax to nod. "Then you will agree that the blood will tell the tale." The video of Donna taking the blood sample was met with silence from the Sycorax, and a shocked look from Matthew. Best to get it done, the Doctor decided. "You agree that is her blood?"

"Yes," the Sycorax leader hissed. "It must be tested." An underling roughly stabbed Matthew's arm with a sampler and then put both in a nearby analyzer. The inevitable result came. The underling cringed as it handed the leader the results. The leader snarled. "You are correct. It is not blood kin. We were… mistaken."

Let's hope it's this easy, the Doctor though he lifted Matthew up by the arm. Matthew seemed too stunned to notice. "Mistakes happen. We're willing to forgive and forget. We'll just take our client…."

The Sycorax leader grabbed the chains, jerking Matthew back. "It is still our slave."

The Doctor thought fast. "And we did offer to buy it." He held out the bag of popcorn. "We'll trade this for him."

The Sycorax took the bag and sampled it. "The food ration is intriguing but not enough. We would need at least an ounce of gold."

"Let me do this," hissed Tom. He strode forward. "An ounce of gold is ridiculous." He pointed to Matthew's bloodied feet. "It's not even intact. I'd have to pay at an ounce of gold just to get it into working shape. Now, as an Irishman, I've always wanted to own an English lord, there's nothing finer than teaching one how to actually get its hands dirty, but I'll not overpay for shoddy broken goods. I'll give you a florin, three shillings, and two six pence of copper." He held out the coins. "I'll throw in the popcorn but you're the one getting the bargain here. I'm buying a lot of work. You haven't even broken him to kneeling before his betters."

The Sycorax considered it. "A more acceptable offer," it said as it kicked Matthew to the floor and examined the metal coins, "but not enough."

"Well," Tom said softly, twisting his left hand with his right almost as if taken by a nervous twitch. "You do drive a hard bargain…. But I promised my Sybil I'd watch out for her family, and her dear sister was hoping for a fine Christmas gift, and Sybil would forgive this with a laugh if it made her sister happy." He held out a small gold ring. "I throw this in, you throw in the chains."

The Sycorax took the ring. "I believe we are getting the bargain," it said.

"Then I won't disabuse the notion. " Tom held out his hand for the chains. "I believe you're holding my property."


	4. Chapter 4

The little blue box with signs in English was like a magic box. Tiny but bigger on the inside in a way that would have intrigued him if he didn't feel like every thought in his head was moving through syrup. "What are we… how do we get out of here?" Because he very much wanted to leave the Sycorax ship. It bothered him that Tom looked so nervous at the question.

The man, the Doctor, shrugged as he closed the wooden door. "Oh a little time travel physics, and ions and particle flows…"

"Right…" He wasn't sure what else to say. "I hope that wasn't a rude question…."

Tom tugged at the chains on his hands. "How do we get these damn things off?" The Doctor peered at them and then shined his odd little device on the shackles. The shackles opened, like magic, and clanged to the floor. In an instant, Tom pulled him into his arms. "Thank god you're alive, Matthew."

He returned the hug, conscious suddenly that he was shaking. He closed his eyes and let his head rest on Tom's shoulder, realizing for the first time in months that he was being touched with something other than rage. "I'm sorry… I'm sorry about Sybil's ring."

"To hell with the ring," was Tom's shuddering reply. "Sybil would never have forgiven me if I'd kept it, that's the truth." Tom hugged him gently and then pushed back, careful to keep a hold of him. "Matthew, you need to sit down."

He heard shuffling and in seconds he was seated in a not very comfort metal chair, with Tom draping his jacket over his shoulders. The red haired woman gave him a mug of something warm. It was only after he was halfway through sipping the sweet frothy concoction that he asked, "What is this?"

"It's a chai latte, probably the closest thing to a cup of tea we have," the woman said, not unkindly. "It's from India. It's probably available at specialty shops."

"India…. My mother is from India." He sighed. "Or I suppose not." That his mother had lied to him, had lied to him about something so important…. It hurt. "I didn't… I didn't want to think it was true."

"I'm sorry," the Doctor said. He strode over and knelt in front of Matthew. "I am so sorry." He lowered his voice. "Proving you weren't related was the only way to divert the Sycorax from going after your cousins and your son. That's why we didn't just run in with flamethrowers and grab you, it wouldn't have stopped them from simply recapturing you."

"We have flamethrowers?" Donna asked.

"In the back, behind the popcorn machine." The Doctor put his hands on Matthew's shoulder. "I know this wasn't the easiest way to find out that your mother hasn't been honest with you."

Despite the increasing shock he felt enveloping his thoughts, Matthew got the sense that the Doctor was attempting to be kinder than he actually felt. There was a rage in the man, and it was aimed at his mother. He thought about the visual displays he'd been forced to watch every day, and chanced a guess. "She disappointed you, didn't she? Harriet Jones… you though she would do better than that."

"Yes," the Doctor said, his tone matter of fact. "She disappointed me, as I imagine she disappointed you. But, here's the problem I worry about, Mr. Crawley." If he wasn't increasingly conscious that every inch of his body hurt, Matthew would have smiled. The Doctor said his name the way his old school master used to. "The problem is that I can walk away. I might be angry with your mother but our time together is done. It's unlikely, "and the Doctor seemed to catch himself at that, "that I will ever see her again. However, the current plan for you is to take you home. To your wife and son, your whole family who will no doubt be thrilled to see you… and the woman you thought was your mother. The same woman who's actions led to your not so delightful vacation with the Sycorax. Is that going to be a problem?"

"I'm not… I'm not going to make a scene…" He pulled Tom's coat close around his shoulders. "She made a bad decision…. I've made bad decisions…" He closed his eyes and then opened them, willing away the memories of the war. "I would like to hope that I'd be forgiven."

The Doctor stood up, seeming to take him in with a long glance. "You don't strike me as a man with an unpleasant past, Matthew."

"I'm also told I don't lie very well. Make of that what you like." And fuzzy and slowwitted as he felt, he had the sudden realization that his regrets looked like tiny pebbles compared to the gigantic boulders of regret that the Doctor carried.

The Doctor nodded subtly, accepting the truth. Then he leapt around the many odd devices like a mad man. "Speaking of lying, the good news is that you two won't have to do very much of it. Before we left, Donna submitted a story to a London newspaper about a band of not very pleasant American kidnappers, one of whom looks very much like Matthew Crawley. I wrote Lord Grantham a very vile letter stating how the kidnappers captured Matthew with hopes for a ransom and their confederate who resembles Matthew was killed in the struggle and they have held Matthew these last few months because they were so angry over their cohort being killed. Now they want a million dollars."

"I did the whole American angle," Donna said cheerfully, "what with Lady Cora having American parents, it will divert attention away from the fact that most kidnappers usually want the money right away."

"Mr. Branson, your story is that you decided to walk home from the train station and you found Matthew walking on the side of the road." Suddenly the Doctor clasped his shoulders from behind, making him jump. "Matthew, you have the easiest part of the story."

"What… no… I don't understand…" He rubbed his head, the aching was getting worse.

"Yes, we are losing you, aren't we?" The Doctor looked him in the eye. "Matthew, if any medical doctor, or police officer, or one of your local tenants ask you what happened, just say this." He paused dramatically. "I hit my head. I don't remember. Say it."

"I hit my head. I don't remember," Matthew said, feeling like he was missing something important. "But I do remember…"

Tom knelt down beside him. "The Doctor is right, Matthew. If you tell people you were locked up on an alien space ship, they'll send you to a bloody insane asylum." He nodded to the Doctor. "They're setting this up clever, Matthew, so you can have your life back. But you don't want everyone thinking you're daft in the head. You have to be careful who you tell and what you tell them. Your mother, and I… Mary later, I know you won't be able to keep it from her but she doesn't need to know yet. Everyone else…. Just tell them you don't remember. Especially the cops and reporters."

Because it will be a scandal, Matthew realized, his thoughts beginning to grow cloudy. "I hit my head… I don't know what happened….Whatever you say, I just want to go home."

0000000000000

"Papa, we must find the money," Mary said, her eyes wet with tears. Her hand clutched the ransom note.

Robert took it from her gently. "It will be found, Mary. If I have to beg or borrow, or mortgage the estate, it will be found." It wouldn't be found *easily*, that was the problem, and the letter the kidnappers had sent made no mention of when the money would need to be produced. Sooner than later, of that he was certain. The real problem was getting it in a timely fashion. Cora's brother might be willing to help out considering the dire situation, and he'd already called several bankers but a million U.S. dollars was an odd request for kidnappers in England.

"I could ask Sir Richard Carlisle," Mary said. "He is wealthy…"

And have you considered the price you would pay if he agreed, Robert thought tiredly. It was wishful thinking on her part. Carlisle wasn't a monster, but he wasn't a kind man either, and he was the fiancé Mary spurned for Matthew and knew it all too well. If he agreed to loan money, and Robert doubted he would agree to it, it would have a price tag. At the very least, he would insist on airing the ugly story in his newspaper. Bad enough someone had already leaked it to Carlisle's paper, with photos of the kidnap gang including one that almost eerily resembled Matthew. Between that, the ransom note delivered, the empty grave, the ugly details were likely going to be headlines for weeks. At least even Carlisle had been willing to admit, in an editorial, that the presumed dead kidnapper was so similar to Matthew that even he had thought it was Matthew in the casket. A lucky thing Carlisle had come to pay his respects. And another clue that borrowing money from him would likely be disastrous. "Mary, there's no need for that yet. We don't even know where they want us to leave the money."

"Oh Papa… what if this is all a cruel hoax?" Mary said it so plaintively; he took her into his arms.

"If it is," he said softly, "then we will be strong and remember that we are no worse off than before. But for now, it is never wrong to have hope, Mary." The dressing gong sounded. There was something to said for routine, he thought as he led Mary into the main hallway.

The routine fell apart in seconds as the front door was flung open. Branson strode in, half dragging, half carrying some poor chap with hair almost as long as a girl's and no shoes, just bloodied bandages covering his feet. Oh dear god, he thought as he met the man's eyes and realized just who Tom had dragged into the house. Mary realized it just as he did.

"Oh Matthew!" she cried as she ran to him. She grabbed him from Tom and kissed him, and then hugged him so tightly Robert was half certain she'd break his ribs. "Thank god you're alive… What happened?" She kissed him again. "Just let me hold you."

Matthew returned the embrace. He looked hollow eyed, scratched and bruised, and Robert could see dried blood in his hair. "I don't think I could let you go…. Are you… I don't… where is the baby?"

"Then don't," Mary said simply. "Don't let go. I'm here, and the baby is here, and now you're here, and everything will be all right, and you don't have to let go of me." For a long moment they held each other. Mary looked up after a moment. "Papa," she said, her voice sounding slightly forced, "I think perhaps someone should call Dr. Clarkson. Matthew, you look quite ill, and these clothes are soaked."

Matthew nodded, and Robert knew what was coming even before the man's eyes rolled back in his head. He stepped in close and helped Mary ease Matthew's limp body to the floor. "He's so thin," Mary said, her voice trembling. "These are the clothes he was wearing the night… the night it happened."

And he'd been beaten to within an inch of his life, Robert realized. He turned to Tom, who had knelt down on the floor with them. "What happened? How did you find him, Tom?"

Tom looked sick with worry. "I got off the train and got it into my head to walk home. I found him on the side of the road." He shook his head. "He didn't… he didn't seem to know where he was and he couldn't tell me where he'd been."

Robert wasn't surprised by that. He looked up to see Carson bustling towards them. "I've called Dr. Clarkson," Carson said as he held out a blanket, "and Mr. Matthew's mother. The Dowager was with her so they will all be here shortly. Mr. Barrow is preparing things for Dr. Clarkson." He looked with concern at both Matthew and Mary. "Lady Mary," he said gently, "I think Mr. Matthew would be more comfortable upstairs in a bedroom."

Mary didn't look away from Matthew's face. "I can't let go of him, Carson," she said as she held his hand.

"Of course not," Robert said, catching Carson's eye, "but let Carson, Tom and I help you get him to bed." It was, he thought suddenly as he saw Cora and Edith, and the servants all gathering towards them, as if the light in the house was finally back on.

0000000000000

He realized suddenly that he felt awake enough to think. He'd been awake before, he realized as he opened his eyes. He could remember someone, Dr. Clarkson he thought, asking him if certain things hurt, and people, the family, asking him what had happened. Someone, Mary, had helped him drink some juice. For the first time though, he felt like he could keep his eyes open for longer than a few fleeting moments. He started to sit up, and Mary was at his side in an instant. He realized, as she carefully fussed with the pillows, that she had spent the entire time at his side. "Mary… what time is it? I feel like I've slept for days…"

"I think it's three o'clock in the afternoon, so just almost one day," she said cheerfully as she tucked a pillow behind him. "Dr. Clarkson said you were to sleep as much as you needed for the next few days, so don't worry. "She took a seat beside him, and took his hand. His hand and arm, he realized, that was bandaged and wrapped. "How do you feel, Matthew? Would you like something eat?"

"I must look a fright," he said simply. He touched his chest with his other hand, beginning to feel oddly startled that at some point during the last day he'd been washed, bandaged, dressed in pajamas and put to bed and he remembered none of it.

Mary leaned in and kissed his cheek. "You look like one of those frightful Egyptian mummies right now. Dr. Clarkson was quite cross with all the work you gave him last night. You look much better than last night, don't worry" She smiled reassuringly. "The doctor said you should recover easily, but that you're not to push yourself and we're not to stuff you with holiday goodies until you're more used to eating regularly." She squeezed his hand gently. "Dr. Clarkson said there might be some scarring and you'll be sore and stiff until all the bruising and cuts and scratches heal, but you're very lucky that your feet, your toes… they're already healing and you shouldn't have any difficulty walking..." She looked at his feet under the blanket. "Does it hurt very much?"

"No," he said reassuringly. "They ache and I shouldn't like to go dancing any time soon but truth be told, everything else aches about as much, including my head." He touched the side of his head and wasn't surprised to find a swath of bandaging. "What… what day is it?"

"It's December 12th. You were gone three months, Matthew. Three terrible months. We thought you were dead. I think my heart broke every day…" She shook off the emotion as if surprised at her admission and smiled reassuringly. "Do you remember anything? You said last night that you didn't remember anything but you were quite out of sorts."

"No," he said after a moment. He could see it worried her so he tried to be reassuring. "Nothing solid…. I remember being hurt…. Being hungry and frightened, and frightened that you and George weren't safe but details…. I remember driving down the road and I saw some sort of light… and then Tom was wrapping his jacket around me, asking me who did this and where had I bloody been…"

Her eyes narrowed slightly. "You don't have to protect me, Matthew. You know that, don't you?" She pulled him into a gentle hug, which he returned.

"If there's one thing I do remember," he whispered to her, "it's how desperately I wanted to keep you safe, and yet also hold you. I think… I think my love for you and the baby was the only thing that kept me alive. I love you, Mary."

"Oh Matthew, I love you so." She kissed him on the lips. "It's as if we've been given a second chance."

000000000000

The next time he awoke, it was less pleasant. He awoke with a start, his hands clenched around the blankets. For a long instant, he didn't know where he was. Worse, he didn't know why he was so frightened. He sat up abruptly, slowly focusing on the bed covers and accepting that whatever had been chasing him had only been in his dreams.

"Matthew, it's all right, you were having a nightmare." He turned his head with a jerk, and instantly regretted it. The room spun and for what seemed like forever, all he could do was cling to the proffered arm. "You're all right," his mother murmured, holding him tightly, "You've injured your head, and you moved too quickly, and the dizziness will pass. Just keep taking deep breathes."

She was right. In the soft electric light, he saw how tired and worried she looked. Worried for him, of course, that was something no alien interrogation could make him doubt. Worried that something was irrevocably broken between them, that he was about to cast her off into the dark of night. Ironic that it was night. "Where is Mary? What time is it?"

"She's asleep in her bed. It's after midnight. Cora and I convinced her that she needed to rest. She's been at your side since last night, like a soldier keeping watch. She wouldn't leave until we promised her that you wouldn't be left alone. Shall I get her?"

"No," Matthew said, feeling oddly tired. "She needs to rest… and we need to talk, Mother. About the alien space ship you blew up when you were prime minister of England in the year 2006." He laughed, despite himself. "The Doctor, and Tom, were right. I sound as mad as a hatter."

His mother chuckled. "You do. I'm sorry that ever had to be said but yes, you sound as mad as a hatter." Her mirth ended almost as soon as it started. "I don't expect you to forgive me for this."

"I do forgive you," he said simply. He took a deep breath. "I'm angry… I'm so angry… Every moment I snap at you in the future, as much as I forgive you, I am so angry…. But I don't want to be the man who rescued me. I don't want to be so angry with the ones I love that my rage rolls over on them and I can't forgive." He looked at his mother, his eyes intent. "You made a mistake. You made a mistake in not telling me the truth when I was old enough to understand, and I forgive that because Father loved you and I love you and I assume he had some part in the decision in not telling me and I love you both too much to be angry over something that in a better world, I never would have known. "He took another deep breath. "And I forgive what you did with the Sycorax… Because I can't look you in the eye and say I behaved better. Everyone acts like I'm such a saint… I'm not."

His mother's hand gripped his tightly. "I somehow doubt you managed the equivalent of hundreds of thousands dead, Matthew. World War One wasn't that devastating."

That jarred, but he didn't let it deter his words. "I shot a man in the war. He surrendered to me and William and then he put his hand in his jacket. I thought he was reaching for a gun, so I shot him. It was point blank, he died instantly." He sighed. "He was reaching for a bible. When I searched his uniform, I found the chaplain insignia. I covered it up before William saw, because I was ashamed that I had just killed a man of God for nothing and I put it out of my mind because the next German soldier reaching inside his jacket was going to be reaching for a gun. I'd never had a reason to trust them. It was a war and it was safer to… not be charitable. And it was a mistake, and it's one I have to live with. And worse, if I was in that same situation, I can't say I would act differently. So, I hate what you did, because it was wrong, but you couldn't have known how it would end up. If I ever expect forgiveness for myself then I have to forgive you."

"I don't deserve that forgiveness, Matthew," she said after a moment.

"Would you feel better if I said no, you don't?" He felt his temper rise. "How's this. I spent every waking moment of the last three months wishing I could die, just so no one else would suffer in my place. When I wasn't being beaten or burned or starved by creatures from an H.G. Wells novel, I was completely and utterly alone. Everyone who ever knew me went to my funeral. My wife thought I was dead. My toes were cut off with a dull pair of shears and were left on my grave. The last ninety days of my life have been a waking nightmare that I can't discuss with anyone but you, and you're the reason it happened, and I love you because you're my mother and I don't want to be enraged with you for the rest of my life." He started to cry. "Just let me forgive you."

In seconds she was holding him, letting him cry on her shoulder. "Thank you," she said softly. "I don't deserve it but I accept your forgiveness and I am so sorry this happened. You didn't deserve this, and you mustn't feel like you can't be angry. You have every right to be angry." She hugged him tightly. "I told the Doctor I'd rather have you here alive and hating me than the alternative. Anything better than that is a blessing."

Matthew wiped his eyes. "It already is beginning to feel like a terrible nightmare." He chuckled suddenly. "You were Prime Minister of Great Britain. You can never tell Cousin Violet that. You might kill her."

She patted his shoulder and laughed. "Cousin Violet has her own secrets, which she intends to share with you when you're more recovered. Suffice to say, she knows, and she is astonished that the future is so horrifying. Now, it is close to one in the morning. You may not realize this, but Mary has been like a wild tigress. If she finds out I've had you up half the night when you were supposed to be resting, she will have me thrown out of the house and forbidden to see you." She brushed the hair from his eyes.

"I must look like a girl," he said as he laid back in bed.

"Carson did want to cut your hair," Isobel said, her voice tinged with amusement. She brushed it again. "I didn't let him. I thought it was the last thing we needed to be concerned about. And in the future, this would be stylishly short for a man and you'd be considered very handsome."

"Fashion sounds abysmal in the future." He hesitated. "I'm sorry the Doctor couldn't forgive you." The thing that had frightened him was that he thought the man had wanted to forgive, and just couldn't, that something was broken inside of him.

Isobel took his hand. "He will, Matthew. One day in his future, a day I've already lived, I will get him to where he needs to be and he will forgive me… and hopefully he'll be able to forgive himself."


End file.
